The Ascent from the Underworld (ENG/ESP)
THE ASCENT FROM THE UNDERWORLD
Written by Fafnir Sowilo
Perhaps I’m merely projecting,
perhaps it’s nothing but stone,
yet on this ancient stairway
echo steps not made alone.
In every worn impression
a silent sigh still clings,
one no distant traveler
could erase with fleeting things.
A stifled sob resounds,
a prayer in pieces scattered,
a broken hymn, long buried
beneath the dust time shattered.
Who climbed these steps before us?
What nameless soul, what flame?
What beggar crowned with longing,
what prince without a name?
Here, where ancient stone
yields to the weight of years,
each crack contains a hidden verse
etched by hands of seers,
by spirits who returned
from realms we veil in fears.
And we, the hurried watchers,
more afraid of empty praise,
of silence in our image,
than of the cry that raises
from the soul that strays.
We forget the old inscription,
the message carved in stone.
We are mirror. We are calling.
We are what was once known.
Time, the faceless teacher,
not a line, nor ring, nor spin,
is a river without border,
an ascent to all within.
These stones, worn down and weathered,
wise whispers from the stars.
When touched, they call us gently
to remember who we are.
And if rising means descending,
and to fall begins the birth,
then this stair becomes a threshold
between ashes and true worth.
At the close of this enigma
there is neither hell nor peak,
only endless invitations
to rise up from the weak.
Check out the original Spanish version here: 👇
! [Hidden Spoiler Text] EL ASCENSO DEL INFRAMUNDO.
Tal vez solo me proyecto,
tal vez la imagen es solo piedra,
pero en esta antigua escalera
resuenan pasos de almas en espera.En cada huella gastada
se esconde un aliento silente,
que ni el turista más ausente
logró borrar con su mirada.Percibo un llanto ahogado,
una plegaria desmembrada,
una oración rota y enterrada
bajo el polvo del tiempo callado.¿Quién ascendió primero,
qué héroe anónimo, qué sombra,
qué mendigo de esperanza,
qué príncipe sin corona?Aquí, donde la roca antigua
se rinde al peso de lo eterno,
cada grieta es un verso oculto,
escrito por almas en pena
que regresan desde el infierno.Y nosotros, los distraídos,
temerosos del frío vacío
de no ser vistos, de no ser oídos,
más que del eco que duele
y que brota del propio desvío.Olvidamos el mensaje encriptado
que en cada piedra fue tallado:
somos reflejo y llamado
de lo que fuimos, de lo olvidado.El tiempo, maestro sin rostro,
ni línea, ni círculo, ni espiral,
es el río sin orilla ni centro,
una ascensión a lo primordial.Piedras, frías antiguas y gastadas:
polvo estelar del universo,
que al tocarse con los dedos,
nos evocan al Uno, disperso.Y si subir es descender,
y bajar es renacer,
entonces esta escalera
es el umbral hacia el Ser.
#freewritehouse #pic1000 #contest #pictureprompt #creative-writing #innerblocks
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